Hey. I wanted to write something different cause I'm kind of exhausted of Stanley Parable for the time being, I'll still finish it though. Here's this short (Very short) scrape of a story I wrote one day feeling really bored. There are a couple more to come as I have a bunch written in paper, I'll post them here, maybe today. Enjoy!
First time into the Shrine
He came.
Gowned in a thin leather cloth; wielding a mighty club, tinted red by the blood of his foes.
The Ashen One emerged from the fog and strode into the Shrine, his squared shoulders tense, his gaze determined, his steps clamorous, his –
…He rolled into the Shrine. Then he fell. Then he died.
…For a second time the Unkindled Champion ROLLED into the Shrine. I said no words as he strode forth and kindled the bonfire. At last, he turned sharp and began his way towards me. Excitement crept across my chest, that special tingle every Firekeeper knew; what each felt when her own Champion sought her for guidance. He was close, I pursed my lips, to recite the words I practiced countless of times, and –
…He…rolled past me, and headed straight for our trusted smith, Andre. A chaste smile came to my lips. Maybe, this Champion was already in knowledge of his daunting task; naturally, he needed the finest metal work to cleave open his path. His steps echoed loudly within the desolated Shrine as he strode, past our resident handmaiden and forth to his goal. Andre's clatter ceased, a sight of rarity. Thrilling. Both peered at each other in silence, unmoving, seemingly studying the other, measuring valo –
"Hey Scruff Mc'Gruff, fancy seeing you here!" the Ashen One spoke. Andre stared silent. Had the two been acquainted in years past? Had the Champion already made his parade through the Fortress of Sans in Lordaran? I focus back onto him, as he spoke again.
"Well, that's that for introductions. Gotta speedrun this, Sorry gritty!" And then I watched in eyeless incredulity as the Champion murdered our smith.
Countless hours of gameplay later
The Ashen Fuck came back, Gwyn spare me.
What did he want this time? To strengthen himself? Embers? To kill us for a third time?
Oh, apparently not. Another time he walked towards Andre, and the look the old man gave him spoke volumes of his regards.
"Hello my bearded servant! I'm very sad to announce that I have once again broken my equipment in my sacred quest for the speedrun, care to lend me hand?" His words made my ears weep. But Andre was strong-willed, of conviction mirroring my own. He said nothing as he nodded and gave his hand to receive the gigantic Greatsword (Ultra Greatsword, apparently) our Champion insisted on using.
Speedrun my taint, records of old speak of Champions linking the flame in a journey from Sun to Sun. It's been months since 'his big annoyance' arrived, and no progress had been made.
He hadn't made his way out of Lothric, or across Lothric, our out of the Shrine really. I sometimes wonder if Gundyr was having a bad day when the Champion bested him. An intentional defeat, mayhaps?
I plunged back to reality when his hideous lips asked me to speak. I repeated the same sentences as always, just out of spite, and I saw him roll away, as he did many times before.
Had my ancestors suffered a Champion akin? I chanted a silent prayer, a plea, for such a thing to remain unknown, hopefully untrue.
At last, he left for his quest, and I wondered how many times he'd die before crawling back to wail his bickers on us. Maybe kill us another time, for good measure. I sighed.
Perhaps the Age of Dark wasn't that bad of an idea.
The 90% legit experience of one of my friends playing Dumb Souls 3. I prefer a more delicate approach :)